


Five times Harold sang to John

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, Canonical Character Death - Joss Carter, Episode: s01e10 Number Crunch, Episode: s01e11 Super, Episode: s02e17 Proteus, Episode: s04e06 Pretenders, Episode: s05e06 A More Perfect Union, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Alternating, Romance, Sappy, Slow Dancing, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11279943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: Root: "How come Harry never sings to us?"Reese: "He doesn't sing to you?"(link to gifset)





	Five times Harold sang to John

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to agentmapal, xlostlenore, jinkyo and lackingcortexiphan (and many others!) for helping me with song suggestions.
> 
> Click the (x) to listen to the music as you read.

ONE.

\---

John wakes up in agony on a hospital gurney. The light above him is too bright, and he can hardly breathe for the pain. He remembers where he is, and what happened. There's a hole in his stomach and thigh. Mark shot him, because John wasn't smart enough to stay hidden.

An unfamiliar, but non-threatening voice. "I'm worried about his heart. He's lost a lot of blood, and this emotional strain isn't helping. You need to calm him down."

Then Harold's face, filling up his field of vision. He looks washed out, exhausted, beyond concerned. "John." There's an unsteadiness in his voice.

"Alive?" John croaks out, trying to smile, gritting his teeth against a groan of pain.

Harold grasps his hand, squeezes it. "Yes, you're alive. You're going to be just fine. I'll make sure of it."

"CIA... didn't see you?"

"No."

"Carter?"

A shadow passes across Harold's face, quickly suppressed. "She's safe. They won't hurt her."

John lets his eyes fall shut, relief easing the tension in his cold shoulders a little. His friends will be alright, even if he himself is not. "Still should've... left me... alone."

The one point of warmth on John's whole body: Harold's thumb rubbing a slow arc across the back of his hand. John trains all of his focus on it, blotting out the sharp sting of his injuries.

"Never," Harold says, fiercely. If John opens his eyes again, he knows he'll see the determined set of Finch's jaw. He'd heard it on the phone, that sheer bravery that propelled John - bleeding, staggering - down yet another flight of stairs, towards rescue, even as he argued to the contrary. "I can't do that, John."

For the first time since losing Jessica, John wants to cry. "Why not?"

"Because..."

There's a long pause, and then the doctor's voice, as though from very far away. "It's okay. Keep him distracted. You're doing well."

Another puddle of warmth settles across John's collarbone. Harold's other hand. "Because I need you," Finch murmurs, and there's a rawness to the words that sends John reeling. In the days to come he will wonder whether he has dreamed this, because weakly, shakily, Harold starts to sing to him, odd and echoing in the morgue:

  
[(x)](https://youtu.be/tiMu8dvIywY?t=1m6s)

  
_"And nobody does it better_  
_Though sometimes I wish someone could_  
_Nobody does it quite the way you do_  
_Why'd you have to be so good?"_

\---

TWO.

\---

Two days after they return from Owen Island, Mr. Reese succumbs to the flu.

"It's to be expected, I suppose," Harold decides, herding John back to bed with both hands on his shoulders. "You spent so much time out in the storm, getting hit over the head, shot at with spear guns and pelted with freezing rain…”

"I don't get sick, Finch," John croaks, and then sneezes explosively.

"Yes, I see that." Harold says, fond, and pulls the blankets up over him.

"What about the number?"

"Detective Fusco is handling it. I am here for you."

At that, John grins. "Really?" He says, hopeful.

"Really." Harold touches the inside of his wrist to John's sweating forehead, and John leans into him greedily. He lies down on his back, spreading his limbs out, apparently doing his impression of a starfish. "Are you quite comfortable?"

"I could be _more_ comfortable," John says, wiggling his eyebrows at him, until Harold sighs and curls up next to him on the bed, on top of the covers, shifting to rest most of his weight on his good hip.

"Sorry if I give you my cold," John says, and then lifts himself up awkwardly to kiss Finch on the cheek. His nose is runny, his beard unshaven, but Harold doesn't mind. John is so sweet like this, blossoming under his attention. Harold cards a hand through John's already messy hair, and watches as his eyelids flicker rapidly, the way he pushes into the touch. "Harold," he all but whimpers, his hand gently curving around Harold's forearm.

"What is it, John? What do you need?"

John settles back down into the pillows. "Would you sing to me? I always like your voice."

Harold traces a fingertip around the edge of John's ear. "Of course. What would you like to hear?"

"Anything," John says, much too eagerly. It sets off a round of coughing, which John quickly smothers in a handful of the sheet. Harold makes soothing noises and rubs his chest. John recovers enough to add "You choose."

[(x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyM8NVl4yBY)

Harold thinks about the last couple of days, and an idea presents itself. He remembers telling Fahey 'you're an amateur at this', and he meant it. He launches into the first verse of The Great Pretender with a wry smirk, while John watches through bleary eyes. When he gets to _"I'm lonely but no one can tell"_ , John stops him with a frown and a brief nudge to Harold's chin.

"You're not, are you?" He seems genuinely worried, his eyebrows knitting together.

Harold smiles at him, slowly, mischievously. "Not anymore."

John's already flushed face gets pinker at that.

Harold picks up at the chorus, singing softly while letting his hands pet John where they will. His partner relaxes entirely under the combined luxury of music and touch, and soon his breaths even out into sleep. Harold continues to hum the words to himself. He's gazing at John's sleeping form when he finds himself singing _"Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal"_ and breaks off, suddenly overcome with emotion. He plants a lingering, firm kiss on John's forehead and then carefully rolls off the bed. John doesn't wake. Harold gathers a box of tissues, a bottle of water, some throat lozenges, and sets them all on the bed within John's reach.

He needs to get to work. Lionel may require backup at any time. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, though, allowing himself one more look.

[(x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGJTaP6anOU)

Harold changes the song. _"Wise men say...only fools rush in...but I can't help...falling in love with you."_ He ducks his head, steps out, and closes the door behind him.

\---

THREE.

\---

John relives Joss dying in his arms for months afterwards. Every time he goes to sleep, he does so with the knowledge that her final moments will play themselves out in his mind. Often he imagines everything he could have done differently, ways he could have saved her. Sometimes he dreams that she is still alive, living it up on a beach somewhere, under witness protection, happy and with her son. Sometimes he wakes up screaming.

He's on the floor with a gun in his hands before he is fully aware. John's surroundings come to him gradually. Harold's kneeling by the opposite side of the bed, hands in the air, breathing hard.

"Shit." John lowers the gun at once. "Sorry, Finch."

Harold blinks at him, slowly. "Another nightmare?" His voice is thin, thready.

John abruptly hates himself for scaring him. He dismantles the gun there and then, hiding the parts in different drawers around the room, as far apart as possible. Harold watches him silently. John can't look directly at him anymore.

"Give me a minute," he says, flatly, and takes refuge in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and the back of his neck. It doesn't help much. He stares at himself in the mirror like he used to when he first started working for Finch and thinks _who the hell am I? I nearly killed him without even knowing._

Several minutes pass, and Harold doesn't knock on the door. John wonders whether he has gone back to sleep. Probably not. John wants Harold to come in and put his arms around him. Craves simple comfort so badly in that moment that he aches with the lack of it.

[(x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_o3s238szZk)

His head darts up when he hears music from another part of the house. John slowly opens the door, ears attuned. He doesn't recognize the music yet, but it sounds sad.

He slowly goes downstairs and finds Harold in the lounge, standing in front of the record player. There's a 45 spinning on the turntable, Finch's fingers hovering just above the needle. Bob Dylan's rough voice is singing _'My mother was a tailor, she sewed these new blue jeans'_ , while Finch mouths along with the words silently. He walks briskly over to the drinks cabinet, selects a bottle of top-shelf whisky, and pours them each a measure. He hands John his drink without a word, then sinks into a chair. John stands awkwardly in the doorway, staring into the bottom of his glass. Afraid that once he starts drinking, he won't be able to stop.

Harold takes a sip, swallows. "I used to listen to this album a lot when I couldn't sleep." He admits.

If there's one thing John has learnt about Harold's musical taste...it's that it is not predictable. He listens to old time classics as readily as modern bands. But this feels...personal. Something from his teenage years, perhaps? John himself had gone through a brief Dylan phase before he joined the army.

He finds himself joining in on _"Oh tell my baby sister not to do what I have done..."_ and Finch backs him up, a small smile hovering at the corner of his mouth.

 _"With one foot on the platform, and the other foot on the train..."_ They sing together, gaining in confidence. To his surprise, John finds himself taking a higher pitch in order to harmonize. Harold's voice is always deeper when he sings than when he talks.

John puts his whisky down untouched. He offers Finch his hand, pulls him up out of the chair. Finch steps into his arms willingly. It's astounding that he's not afraid, when less than half an hour ago John pointed a gun at him in his sleep. John takes Harold's hands and places them on his waist, tucks his own chin down against Harold's shoulder. They sway in place, still quietly singing along as the music swells. They don't speed up at the same rate as the music does. They're not guided by the rhythm so much as their own instincts.

Before they know it, the record moves onto the next track, a much faster country jive with a harmonica, and John almost laughs. They won't be dancing to that one. Harold slides out of the embrace apologetically and lifts the needle off. It returns to the side rest with a quiet click. John stares at him, shaking his head slowly, gazing at Finch in amazement. John doesn't hate himself as strongly as before. Finch always knows just how to help him. He doesn't even ask what John was dreaming about. He just squeezes John's fingers in his own and presses their foreheads together. John closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath.

\---

FOUR.

\---

Harold has been asleep in bed for about two hours when he is woken by John, who is sighing and fidgeting beside him.

Harold sits up and turns on the light. "What ever is the matter?"

"My arm. Keeps throbbing. I can't sleep."

While Harold was in Hong Kong, John just had to get himself shot. Of course. And now he's suffering. Harold recognizes John's need for his attention. "Oh, my dear. Didn't you take anything for it?"

"Yeah. Still hurts." John sticks his lower lip out, looking very sorry for himself.

Harold gets up for a glass of water and one of his own more potent painkillers. He brings both back to John.

After he takes the pain relief, John is still pouting and miserable. Harold ruffles his hair.

"I know what'll cheer you up." He gets off the bed and heads towards the CD player on the dresser across the room.

John is reaching for him with his good arm. "Harold, you don't have to... it's the middle of the night."

Harold smiles at him. "I'm already feeling quite refreshed, actually. My accidental nap on the plane home has done me more good than I expected. Now, lie still, and allow me to entertain you."

[(x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTIjLLCRD4g)

John visibly becomes more alert as soon as the music kicks in. Harold smirks. He thinks John is going to laugh at this one.

 _"He's not the first..."_ Harold sings. The line repeats, and John frowns a little. _"But he's the second best secret agent in the whole wide world."_

John blinks. "Me?" He mouths.

Harold holds a finger up and waggles it. _"Not number one..."_

John looks affronted. "Why not?"

Harold thinks to himself: _because you get shot too often_. Then he sings: _"But not the worst.."_

"Thanks a lot!" Quite offended.

_"He's just the second best secret agent in the whole wide world."_

"So who's better than me?"

Harold wasn't counting on John getting quite so competitive.

_"He's every bit as good as what's-his-name... With a dame, any dame ..."_

Recognition dawns. John rolls his eyes. "Well, if we're comparing me to a fictional character..."

Harold sings over his protest. _"And all those bullet holes are in his vest... "_ As he completes this line, Harold finds John's bulletproof vest over the back of a chair and tosses it gently onto the bed. It settles across John's legs. _"To prove you work a little harder when you're second best."_

"I do work hard..." John says, a little happier.

Harold nods. _"Give him his due...He's number two."_ He waggles two fingers at John this time. John lets out an exasperated, plaintive noise. Harold decides he'd better sit on the bed beside him. _"Right in there doing his act despite the fact he shot clear through."_ Harold pinches his fingers together in front of one eye, demonstrating John's pinpoint accuracy with any firearm. _"Not the tenth-nineth-eighth-seventh-sixth-fifth-fourth-third or first..."_ With every number in the countdown, Harold tiptoes his fingers lightly up John's bandaged arm, ending up cupping John's jaw. John doesn't flinch. Finally he has stopped protesting. He's giving Harold an appreciative, starry-eyed look.

Harold moves his whole body nearer to John's, leaning over him as he puts some emphasis on the final line: _"But the second best secret agent in the whole wide blooming world."_ There's a bit of instrumental dazzle, then Harold says _"Yeah!"_ at the same time as the singer, grinning wide, playful. He pats John's cheek. "That's my man." He makes to get up and turn off the CD, but John grabs his t-shirt and pulls him back down. Both of his hands are on Harold's face when he kisses him, deep and enthusiastic. Harold hums into the kiss, thinking: _Well, that worked. Eventually._

"Feeling better?" He asks, when John lets him up. He cradles John's wounded arm, inspecting it carefully. Then he places his lips just below the level of the gauze. John burrows his head back against the pillows, thoroughly pleased.

Harold turns off the player and returns to the bed, placing the bulletproof armor back with John's suits in the process.

"Back to sleep now?"

John agrees, with a request: "Hold me first?"

Harold snuggles up under the covers with him. "Gladly."

\---

FIVE.

\---

They end up drinking the rest of the bourbon from the bottle John found in the Turners’ wine cellar. Sitting around the table, they watch these ordinary people enjoy their evening happily, unaware of the dangers lurking in every corner. John told Maggie they were whoever people needed them to be, but what she said about memories…it struck a chord. Sometimes living for the numbers is hard.

It’s getting late by the time the three of them leave the wedding party. They don’t bother taking separate taxis this time. Nobody is paying attention to them. John isn’t tipsy. If he were an ordinary man, he might be. Harold and Root are a little unsteady. They don’t have his tolerance for alcohol. Root has her arm around Harold’s shoulders as they walk slowly down the stairs into the subway. They’re leaning on each other, pressed close. Seeing them like this isn’t helping John’s declining mood. He’s got a nice little pity party going for himself. Maybe the whisky is affecting him, after all. He’s just got all of the blues and none of the buzz.

"Do Uncle Ralph's accent again." Root pleads, her eyelashes too close to Finch’s cheek.

Harold wets his lips and smiles at her. "What would you like me to say, lassie?" It’s sweet, because he’s trying so hard and clearly thinks he’s hilarious, but it also makes John want to groan, it’s so embarrassing. Root giggles, giving Harold one more squeeze before letting go to stand on her own two feet, now they’ve reached the bottom of the staircase.

Harold turns slowly on the spot, searching the subway floor. “Where’s Bear?”

Root stretches her shoulders, yawning. “Lionel’s looking after him.” She gives an apologetic shrug. Harold nods absently, accepting this.

John goes over to the lockers and puts his gun and knife away for the night. When he turns back around, Root is again touching Harold, playing with his tie. “Your singing was brilliant.”

John bites his tongue on a jealous growl and strides over to them. If Root wants to pay Harold compliments, John can do that too. He steps up to his side and casually runs the tips of his fingers up and down Harold’s back. “Yeah, I’m proud of you, Finch. As far as social interaction goes, I remember when you didn’t want to leave the library and would only talk to me. You sang in front of a packed room of total strangers today. You did good.” He finishes with a peck to Harold’s sideburn, because Finch is _his_.

Harold leans into John, his cheeks flushing with the praise. "Not all strangers. You two were there."

Root backs off a little, giving them space, but then she says shyly: “John tells me you often sing for him?”

John coughs and quickly changes the subject. He should not have let that slip. "Speaking of performing, I still haven't forgiven you for that stripper thing. You're not supposed to lie to me." He says it gently but admonishingly, and lets his fingertip lightly flick at the end of Harold’s nose, trying to keep his attention on him and only him.

Harold grins sheepishly. "I didn't _lie_. I withheld context. She _did_ call for police." And then, because he’s apparently determined to humiliate John: "And besides, you're quite happy to strip for _me_." This statement is accompanied by an imperious eyebrow waggle.

Root absolutely _guffaws_ , slapping John’s shoulder as though she’s in tryouts to become the skinniest linebacker in history.

“Ooooooh.” John huffs, eyes narrowing. He shakes his head slowly, glaring at Finch. Harold will pay for that another time, when he’s sober. John reflexively straightens his crooked bowtie. The one he had to do up all by himself because they got ready for this undercover operation separately. "Maybe there are some things I'm _not willing to share_."

John’s tone is as pointed as possible, but Harold merely beams up at him. "That’s good to know. You're all mine." He kisses John impulsively, winding his arms around him. Harold obviously doesn’t care that Root is right there, cheering them on. And then John gets over himself, because he can taste the expensive bourbon on Harold’s tongue, and he’s not going to pass up on some quality late night snogging. Living for the numbers may be hard work, but living for Harold is easy.

Harold’s thumbs trace over John’s lips after the kiss ends. He looks even more flushed and happy. John swallows, his mouth sensitive. Harold is beautiful. Even with that silly cap on his head. John reaches up and takes it off him, running his fingers through Harold’s hair.

But he doesn’t get to enjoy it for long, because drunk Root is even chattier than usual. “When are you two getting married? I’d better be invited to that one.” She practically bounces with excitement. “Harry, what would you sing at your wedding?”

John’s heart _turns over_ in his chest. He’s not…they don’t get to…he hadn’t even given it a _thought_.

But Harold has. His gaze sharpens as he turns back to Root. “Oh, I know exactly the right song.” He sounds determined.

John is still having palpitations over the realization that Harold has already planned to marry him.

Harold moves far enough away that John can’t hear him, then whispers into Root’s good ear.

“Awwwwwww! Now you have to show us.”

Harold looks from Root to John and back again. “Very well.”

John gapes. “N-now, really?”

Root scoops Uncle Ralph’s cap off the floor and puts it on her own head at a jaunty angle. Then she hooks her arm through John’s and drags him to the bench. They sit down together.

Harold goes over to the desk, boots up his computers, finds the music.

[(x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg2vMrDzoXM)

Then he turns to face them again. He stands with one hand on the back of his chair, looking far less nervous than he was earlier today. John takes a deep breath and blows it out again as he recognizes the opening chords.

Harold looks right at John as he starts to sing. _“You and I must make a pact…we must bring salvation back…where there is love, I’ll be there.”_

‘Salvation’ is right. Harold saved him.

 _“I’ll reach out my hand to you…”_ Harold approaches the bench, shyly offering his hand. John covers his mouth with his right hand, joyful tears pricking at his eyes. He puts his left in Harold’s upturned palm and allows Harold to pull him up onto his feet. _“I’ll have faith in all you do. Just call my name, and I’ll be there.”_ The words are too true. Harold has been there. From that parking structure, to Owen Island, to Italy, to every time John has just wanted to hear his voice.

Harold leads him across the floor, and they naturally arrange themselves into a slow dance. They couldn’t dance together in public without drawing too much attention to themselves. Their covers weren’t supposed to know each other, at all. But here in the subway, they can do whatever they like.

 _“I’ll be there to comfort you…”_ John swallows past the lump in his throat and joins in, quietly singing with him: _“Build my world of dreams around you, I’m so glad that I found you…I’ll be there with a love that’s strong…I’ll be your strength… I’ll keep holding on…”_

“Always, John,” Harold says earnestly, gazing deep into his eyes. John nods, grinning by now. He kisses Harold gratefully and holds him tight. His earlier jealousy has melted away. He knows what he means to Harold, and what Harold means to him (everything).

So when he turns in Harold’s arms and sees Root with the sad, faraway look on her face that she had around the wedding table…he feels able to go to her. “Come on, Root, your turn.” She snorts as John pulls her up to dance, and her melancholy mood lifts.

Harold looks elated as he watches Root and John dance together. He continues singing: _“Whenever you need me, I’ll be there.”_

Even Root joins in on _“I’ll be there to protect you, with an unselfish love I respect you.”_ At ‘respect’, John shakes her hand mock-formally and winks at her. She genuinely smiles at that.

_“Just call my name, and I’ll be there.”_

**Author's Note:**

> List of songs with lyrics:
> 
> [Nobody Does It Better - Carly Simon](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/carlysimon/nobodydoesitbetter.html)
> 
> [The Great Pretender - The Platters](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/platters/thegreatpretender.html)
> 
> [Can't Help Falling In Love - Elvis Presley](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/elvispresley/canthelpfallinginlove.html)
> 
> [House of the Risin' Sun - Bob Dylan](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/bobdylan/houseoftherisinsun.html)
> 
> [The Second Best Secret Agent In The Whole Wide World - Sammy Davis Jr.](https://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/tinkertailorsoldierspy/thesecondbestsecretagentinthewholewideworld.htm)
> 
> [I’ll Be There - Jackson 5](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jackson5/illbethere.html)


End file.
